


Little White Lies

by bmouse



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: F/M, Gen, M/M, Post-Canon Cardassia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-13
Updated: 2016-02-18
Packaged: 2018-02-12 23:28:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 6,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2128455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bmouse/pseuds/bmouse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Misc bin! A home for small unconnected DS9 ficlets that might have slipped through the cracks on my tumblr. Currently contains Garak/Bashir (is anyone surprised) and a little fledgeling Jake/Ziyal. New things added as they come up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. More Than Meets The Eye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Intrepid reporter Jake Sisko finds a new ally in his eavesdropping campaign against the Dominion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually like this pairing! It would have been interesting if they explored it...but without de-clawing Ziyal, so to speak. She is no-one's sidekick.

"What are you doing?"

Jake springs back from the maintenence vent so fast he nearly hits his head against another pipe cluster.

"Oh" the girl in the doorway tilts her head, the single overhead light flickers across the delicate scales on her neck "I see, the sound carries here, doesn’t it?"

Yeah Weyoun’s about to have a meeting downstairs and Jake wants something a little meatier for his next issue than Quark’s pro-Dominion redecorating plans. Jake raises his hands in a ‘you got me’ gesture and tries to muster the winning smile of a charismatic, up-and-coming young journalist who you really don’t want to report to Security.

Ziyal giggles.

"You know, I believe I can be of assistance." 

Jake notices, in that way he has of noticing little background things about everyone, that she’s picked up Mr. Garak’s habit of smiling widely at people. Except on her it’s less creepy. Then again she’s cuter, and pretty resourceful; pulling one of Chief O’Brien’s PADDs out from behind a sketchbook in her innocuous-looking shoulder bag. With sure fingers she flips up the access terminal and keys in some numbers. The vent cover smoothly slides open. They can hear the Jem Haddar dragging chairs across the floor in the room downstairs.

"Whoa, thanks!" he whispers.

"Don’t mention it." she mouths back "Actually, I’d really rather you didn’t."

Right, her semi-deadbeat dad being Dukat and all.

Jake tips his nonexistent fedora in her direction “Don’t worry miss, a reporter never reveals his trusted sources.” 

"Oh Mr. Sisko," she crouches down next to him, tucking the folds of her skirt elegantly around her legs. "I believe we are going to be fast friends."

~


	2. Catching Up

Finally, a long range transmitter gets Starfleet Academy Instructor O’Brien on the line. It takes some finessing: the Federation Communications grid generally takes a dim view of dodgy triple-encrypted signals from the Alpha Quadrant.

Miles looks… comfortable. Settled, with fewer tension lines around his mouth and the sight of his familiar pug nose after nearly half a year of nothing but written letters leaves Julian too happy to feel awkward. 

He wonders what his friend sees; what changes are hidden, what evident. His hair is faintly fluffy where Garak helped him trim it (cool strong hands on his scalp - heavenly on a hot morning) but still longer than it used to be. He’s a shade darker than he’d ever been on the station. Cardassia is probably the most natural sunlight he’s ever had: a lifetime’s worth packed into a year. He knows he’s let certain things lapse. Most of the people he sees day-to-day don’t even have a baseline for what a normal Terran can do, and for the price of the ‘exotic offworlder’ label he’s free to be exactly what he is. 

They talk and talk. About what everyone’s been up to, about the reconstruction terraforming, about what students are driving him ‘up the bloody wall’ and Miles doesn’t seem to notice any of it: not the longer nails, or the slightly-inhuman stillness in between his movements, or the familiar stitching on his pale green shirt because eventually he sighs and says “So… you find him yet?”

Julian smiles. “Yes. It took a bit, but yes.”

“Well? And?” 

Miles scrunches up his wide honest face in a way that plainly says he feels it’s his duty to ask, no matter how much he might not want to hear the answer.

“I married him.”

 

~


	3. Favorite Side

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More self-indulgent post-canon fluff. Actually this is the first G/B story I ever wrote.

When he wakes up he finds that the warmth in the bed is halved. The white sheets in front of his face are rumpled and empty, tinted violet in the early-dawn light. He strangles a plaintive growl.

The pattern of residual heat in the bed outlines the sweetly curled shape that must have been there no more than five minutes before and it’s frankly criminal that it might be going to waste. With a slow inexorable stretch he shifts himself sideways, taking the blanket with him to form a cocoon rich with borrowed warmth and his bedmate’s scent. Hearing no light footsteps in the corridor he gives into the temptation and rubs his face slowly up and down the pillow, mouth slightly open and tongue lifted up to let his deep breaths carry the flavor to the proper receptacles.

It’s delicious. Even more so than before, especially free of the harsh polyester tang of the uniform. His old friend’s scent had been a balm to his circumstance even after their conversations had stopped. The ease, the conditioned relief he’d felt catching a hint of it had balanced out the absurd bitterness of him finding excuses to loiter past the Infirmary like a freshly abandoned schoolboy. He didn’t think he’d be in a position to appreciate it again after the day he’d put his hand on the Doctor’s shoulder and then later nostalgically ran his tongue over the tips of his fingers, tasting goodbye.

Now there are some fresh strands in the bouquet. Lennet which has become a favorite morning snack, dirt from the garden and under everything faint flavor of bride-soap of all things. A particularly brave colleague at the State Healing Center must have given it to him as a gently-barbed joke but then the silly man keeps using it anyway and then wonders why one set of bites and bruises barely fades before he is given another. To have him here in his home, within reach of touch and _properly_ perfumed is really more than a man with his sentimental heart can take.

There, soft steps. He goes still immediately and settles down, toes flexing discretely with residual happiness. The footsteps stop at the side of the bed, surveying the damage. There is a sound rather like a hand landing decisively on a bare hip.

“Really, Garak? I do wish you’d pick a side.”

“I have.” he murmurs in his most insolent tone and theatrically clutches at his freshly stolen pillow.

_I have yours._

With a snort and a roll of the eyes that he doesn’t have to be facing to see, the outermost edge of the cover is gently lifted and lovely, living heat presses against him from calves to nape. He’s about to drift off when he feels a blunt nose press itself into his unstyled hair and take a deep satisfied inhale.

Julian does get his pillow back, eventually.


	4. Revisions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happens when two people with photographic memories and too much history finally get together.

Every now and then some new form of contrary devilry would rise up in his housemate and they would begin a game. The object seemed simple: perfect propriety in all gestures, in all forms of address - to confer on each other every intimacy that was permitted between two old friends who shared goals, enemies, and a single dwelling. But nothing further. Julian suspected that it eased something in both of them. As if they had stepped back in the circular Cardsassian fashion - into their old selves; the people they had been on the station who had watched each other and weighed options and calculated and yearned but never quite at the same time or in the right circumstances.

He would lean against Garak as they sat on the reading-couch, subtly take in the smell of his sun-warmed hair, use the shadow of his shoulders to shield his PADD from the glaring light and sometimes quite daringly, as if they had been raised as wards in each others homes, press the thin skin of their bare feet together.

Tension would stretch between them, thick and sweet and right before the moment it could become true distance the game would end. Julian would find himself pouring tea, standing the same way he had stood that one day in the Replimat where he had noticed Garak glance hungrily at the tendons of his wrist and almost overfilled the cup. On that actual day (3 years, 2 months and 11 days ago) in his haste to destroy the evidence, to pretend that nothing has happened, he had gulped down the excess tea too quickly and burned his tongue. Garak had said something cutting about ‘impatience’ and for a moment there had been something strained and self-mocking about his smile but then they had gone on as usual.

Today a hand thoughtfully catches the teapot just as his fingers spasm and let it go, because he is distracted, because he feels gentle lips and then teasing too-gentle teeth on the side of his neck for the first time in days. Garak’s other hand trails down his body, closes firmly around that long-ago coveted wrist while Julian turns his head and gives himself up to their eight hundred and third, their fourteenth first kiss.

~


	5. An Old-Fashioned Surprise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Something sweet and post-canon to cheer up tinsnip a couple months back. I am also a sucker for outsider-POV-of-my-OTP fic.

"The knob on the left burner gets warm!" she’s compelled to say when she sees Chu’rien fiddling with the old oven.

The clinic has had a new oven for months now but mysteriously no one had reported the spare. Oh it would be troublesome to disassemble it anyway and it was an older model with an unwieldy set of connectors. So they had two and swore all the rotating doctors to solemn secrecy.

"Yes, thanks for the warning" he says cheerfully but she notices he had already wrapped the tip of his sleeve around his fingers.

He sees the tilt of her head and raises his chin proudly. “I saw Liskan using this burner once.”

"When was that?" Liskan has been on child-leave since spring.

"Winter of last year?"

And he recalled that so quickly? Her memory of last winter was neatly arranged of course but it would take at least two dozen heartbeats of time to get everything readied and close to the surface. 

"Can I help with anything?"

Really she wants to know what he’s doing. They had all gone from eating ration cubes to cooking ‘bring something’ stew to finally having enough established homesteads and regular pay periods that everyone either enjoyed their boxed homemade meals around the common table or went out in groups to the food carts. The spotlessly-clean temperamental old oven, now demoted to party cakes and large-scale tea brewing, had become a sign of luxury and better times.

"Hand me a stirrer and a set of tongs maybe?" 

But not a request to help with the actual preparation, curiouser and curiouser. She did as he asked and then took a seat in the corner chair with her designated lunchtime novel. A good spot; strategically chosen to catch the heat and removed enough to give the man some privacy, but close enough to smell. 

For some reason the intrepid Onja Saltek’s pursuit of the academic fellowship, as well has her conflicted feelings towards her two competitors did not seem quite as interesting this afternoon. Tsk tsk, she liked the author but she was getting complacent with her flow in the middle chapters. Clearly Chu’rien was making sauce. Something from a more central province though; he was rather putting his shoulder into it so it must be thicker than what her father had drizzled this morning over the fish and vegetable skewers. Concentrating as she was on other things the memory caught her unawares. Now she was hungry, bother.

Bringing her book to cover her face (rather stealthily, she thought) she sipped the air. Hmm, some kind of nut? A reduction of rantek roots certainly…and something else she couldn’t quite place. Her interest was peaked in the extreme.

How to proceed, though? The young doctor was easy to talk to; Humans had a staggeringly wide range of conversational permissiveness, though one occasionally had to field some very strange questions in return. He certainly wouldn’t mind a ‘What are you making? Why?’ but then she would be embarrassed by such a schoolmiss-ish directness.

Just then he covered the sauce-pot and with some effort pulled open the heavy oven door. Oh! She hadn’t even noticed there was something baking inside already. Really, she’d better give up on these detective-fantasies straightaway. With an expression of triumph Chu’rien looked at the trays filled with puffy little half-moons and then made a little abortive motion towards the handles, coupled with a look of dismay that clearly indicated he’d forgotten hand-covers to take them out with.

No better cue for her to swoop in.

Finally, at least half of her question was satisfied. Up close she recognized the spongy texture of the dough and the slight red glow from the inner filling. She’d seen it before - in a sweetshop in the oldest section of her University-city. That day she had outperformed her rival at oratory and went to buy a handful of sticky-twists. An aged Magistrate with snow-white hair had requested a bag of these old-fashioned children’s treats as she stood ahead of her in the queue. Now what was the text on their label…She went a little deeper into the memory.

"Danchat?" 

"Yes. As you must know." He shot her a sideways look. Tsk. Caught. She should have known, the man did share a house with…

"It’s his mother’s recipe."

Oh my! No wonder he hadn’t let her near the food.

It was a struggle to keep the line of her mouth mostly even or to refrain from flexing her toes. How thoughtful! How sweet! (and what a thing to know about the formidable District Inspector!) No wonder he couldn’t use his house-oven - the smell would give everything away.

She stepped back, out of the zone of frantic activity where he bustled, boxing the sauce and as many little cakes as he could fit into sealed separate containers, doubtless to be more artfully arranged before the moment of presentation.

When he was finished his breathing was fast enough to give her some concern and he gave the oven timekeeper the sort of glare one reserves for one’s fiercest critic. Alas the oven was somewhat the worse for wear - it’s surface freshly freckled with specks of sauce and the counter was in a state of regrettable untidiness. Ah but here was the perfect opportunity to apologize for her snooping.

“My clean-up fee is five pieces, firm.”

“Splendid! I think I made too many…” 

Tactfully she did not look down to where his bags bulged with containers and the third baking tray was only half-emptied.

“You’re a lifesaver! See you tomorrow!”

With a wave and a madcap, yet oddly graceful scramble he looped his satchel and bags around his arms and dashed away in the direction of the door - off to surprise someone it must ordinarily be quite difficult to surprise.

She waved back and wished him luck. A smirk crept onto her face as she surveyed her unexpected evening meal. And her with a sub-degree in proper nutrition, for shame! But the smirk remained as she glanced around, unpeeled a pastry from the tray and took a quick bite, followed by a swipe of her tongue across the sauce spoon.

Let everyone wonder about the smell that lingered around this corner of the kitchen. Tomorrow she would smile into her book and not say a thing.

~


	6. A Walk With Friends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Vyc at some point requested a DS9/Pokemon fusion and at first I was like 'um, what, how?' but then this came together fairly quickly. I had to research new Pokemon names since the last game I played was on a black and white Gameboy so apologies for any inaccuracies. I should play the new games huh.... I'm old... T__T

When Garak pulls a secret drawer out of the side-panel of his couch (‘take note doctor, people rather expect this sort of thing from a desk or a bookshelf and neglect to check the other furniture ) Julian gasps. Cardassian Pokeballs are a little more ovoid, individually textured, and each comes with a cunningly cast little hook to clip onto their trainer’s harness. 

_They’re prettier_ he thinks with a flash of childish jealousy and they are; more like works of art than the utilitarian Federation models. He wouldn’t put it past Garak to have custom ones though. The only consistent thing in the collection is the Union sigil over the closure. No, wait, not quite. A few towards the back only have the stripped-down emblem of the Order.

No wonder he keeps them out of sight.

"Most of mine have been re-homed, of course. Before I came here. It would be rather cruel of me to keep them, to make them sleep for so long." His fingers stroke gently along their outer shells, he turns with a smile that isn’t quite a smile.

"Though as you well know I am occasionally a selfish person." 

Garak plays civillian to the hilt. He doesn’t even keep anything useful around the shop, then again Bajoran and Cardassian-kept mon seem to be taking cues from their owners so it’s probably for the best. He can’t help thinking about it, how lucky he is in comparison to be able to bring out his old Persian whenever he wants something to purr on his lap as he’s running simulations. She and the Ditto are a big hit whenever a child is stuck recovering in the Infirmary. Classic Earth-mon are rare on the farther-flung Starfleet outposts.

Eventually a plan comes together. He does the kind-of-obvious thing and slips a note into a rare paperback copy of “Master and Margarita.” The next lunch neither of them says anything about it but even when he waxes a little long about Pontius Pilate’s sentimental subplot with his Arcanine Garak raises an eyeridge at him but lets the point stand. 

They take a runabout. Officially they’re here to stretch their legs and collect Dax’s earlier geological survey modules but their smiles are a little too bright, their banter a little too pointed and as he steps onto the transporter pad Julian is almost vibrating with energy, the Pokeballs on his belt clacking gently against each other. A vast grassy meadow greets them when they beam down. The planet is mostly deserted and this particular geological feature spans half of the southern continent. A warm wind flutters the hems of their pants and even teases a few strands of Garak’s hair out of their usual configuration. 

Julian can’t control himself he lets Kukalaka out immediately, trying and failing to keep a straight face as he watches him snuffle at the ground and poke nearsightedly at clamps of grass with his heavy front claws. Eventually he rears up and, noticing Julian, gives a happy hoarse bark opening his paws up to let the Human press himself against the pale circle in the center of his chest.

"An old charge of yours, Doctor?" Garak asks from somewhere behind him.

"My first one, actually!" he replies around a face full of dense fur.

He tries to turn around, wiggling in the giant ursine-type’s grasp. Kukalaka isn’t quite ready to let his trainer go though, planting his muzzle firmly on top of his head. Fair payback he supposses for all the times Jules had snuggled up to and drooled on him back when he was just a little Teddiursa.

When he finally manages to face Garak he can see that he’s unclipped an older-looking ball, one that wasn’t even in the secret drawer. Its surface is lovingly polished but chipped and scratched so it really can’t be anything but a cheap starter model. 

"This one’s been with me since my school days."

"What is it?" He’s burning to know. A first mon says a lot about a person, right? Then again they probably do everything differently on Cardassia.  
Garak spreads his arms wide, his eyes have half closed into pleased little crescents. Julian braces himself for something shocking, a level 3 psychic or maybe a venom-type. 

"A Ragnar. Just a common Ragnar. She and I were both rather young and callow when we met."

Oh, that’s… sweet of him isn’t it? And given the way Cardassians prize utility in all things rather out of character - keeping such an early catch at his age. Old as he’s getting even Kukalaka could still be useful in a match. Maybe there’s something he’s missing.

"Ragnar are practice-mon, aren’t they? They only have the one evolution?"

"Oh my dear," Garak deftly thumbs the seal open, a shadow blocks out the sun. 

"You really shouldn’t believe everything you’ve heard."

~


	7. The Spoils of the Season

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Half of Quark's business model is knowing when to keep his mouth shut. Originally a DS9 Holiday Exchange fic for the-kanar-bar on tumblr.

As much as he pretended to be impartial, with the new temporary Cardassian re-taking of the station Quark couldn't say that that his clientele had changed for the better. Not that he _liked_ Sisko and his motley Federation lot but they made for a more varied crowd. He could sell them a larger variety of things. Cardassians only wanted kanar, more kanar, sometimes Bajoran Springwine and the very occasional hot raktajino. 

Now instead of the usual hubub only the sound of well-ordered booted feet reached his sensitive ears. Here came the evening rush, and Dukat too. You could hear the man swagger from three blocks away. 

He readied his most ingratiating smile. 

The doors opened, Dukat and his soldiers sauntered in. Quark kept a straight face. You'd be surprised how much of his business was keeping a straight face. Only Odo or someone who reluctantly knew him well would have noticed the extra twitch of his nose or the slight widening of his eyes. 

"Gentlemen! (and ladies!) You're looking very… fashionable." he said, diplomatically.

Dukat preened.

"Yes you see, we decided to liberate some wares from that traitor's shop!”

Well, thought Quark, at least now they wouldn’t be scratching the furniture with their armor. Never had a group of scaly saurians looked quite so...fuzzy. 

You had to hand it to Garak. It was almost like he had known ahead of time because apparently all he had left behind in the shop was last month's accidental delivery of traditional Ugly Terran Christmas Sweaters.

Out of sight, under the counter of the bar Quark gleefully rubbed his hands together. Oh, he would have to save the footage from the security cameras. He knew at least seven people who would pay handsomely to see Dukat wearing THAT!

~ 


	8. The Compromise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little winter G/B. Originally a DS9 holiday exchange fic for minniemcgonagall

Julian Bashir nearly skidded into the shop, beaming from ear to ear.

"Garak! It's ready!" 

Garak looked up from his work table with a faint air of martyrdom. Though the corner of his mouth may have lifted a little.

"Well I did promise, didn’t I. I'll meet you there at eight." 

At 7:55 just outside of holosuite three at Quark's Julian found himself smiling for a completely different reason. Garak was wearing a long Andorian wool coat with a hood and fur-lined gloves. His eyes were glittering skeptically above a white scarf that had been wound halfway around his face, but still he had come. 

"You can take all that off, you know." 

"Oh, _really_?" 

Julian rolled his eyes even as the tips of his ears turned faintly pink. 

"I thought this was set in the wintertime?" 

"Well yes, that is when the holiday takes place." he said, guiding Garak forward with a hand under his elbow. "But for the sake of your comfort I've made a few alterations to the program.” 

They stepped through the door. Beyond it the night was liquid and blue, but not cold. Snow drifts piled around the slightly dimmed streetlights and snow crunched under their feet but the air was hot and still as if it were June. 

Eventually Garak left his coat, gloves and scarf on a bench. Eventually Julian had to take off even his light holiday sweater but it was worth it to be able to walk together down the quiet lane of the London park. Their hands brushed and slipped, one into the other. 

Eventually Julian nerved up and said what he'd been planning to say and when Garak kissed him the snow that fell peacefully down from the artificial sky was warm, the snowflakes settling on their skin like drops of gentle fire.

~ 


	9. The Strange Old Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> from a tumblr prompt “Slightly-scary-post-war!Julian going back to Earth and/or DS9 for a vacation.” archiving on AO3 for completion's sake.

“I still think he’s a vampire” Midori whispers to her across their desks when the old man shows up.

Apparently he shows up every couple of years, Professor O’Brien is always happy to see him and his face doesn’t seem to change from visit to visit. Midori must be working on something really boring to want to mine drama out of that.

Still, she’s bored enough herself that she sneaks a look over the top of her console screen at the figure on the hallway bench. Yep, a skinny old guy who dresses flamboyantly. Huge mystery there, big whoop. Maybe he’s one of the professor’s former grad students. Though it’s maybe a little unfair to call him //old//. He could be a weathered fifty or a youthful seventy. Probably closer to seventy though. The way he’s stretched out on the bench, eyes closed inside a sunbeam from the iron-framed windows, reminds her of the 20-year-old cat they’d had when she was a child. It used to laze around like a furry stain on the furniture; mild as milk and then gleefully disemboweled rabbits after dark.

Of course the moment she’s thinking that his eyes open and look right at her.

_Shit._

She firmly suppresses the urge to duck behind her screen, it’s useless to pretend she hadn’t been staring. Instead she gets up and goes to the water cooler, discreetly kicking Midori’s chair as she passes by. She’s not the department PR intern for nothing, diffusing awkward situations is something of a specialty. Besides, it is in the mid eighties outside, don’t old people dehydrate faster?

“Sir, would you like some water?”

“Thank you.” he says, and she feels the momentary hum of the school translator in her ear.

They keep meaning to upgrade the staff to the newer models but she likes knowing when it’s working. What language though? Midori would know, she never remembers hers.

He accepts the water, thick long nails clinking against the glass, and then sets it down on the bench next to him without taking a sip.

Up close he looks Human but now for some reason she’s increasingly convinced that he isn’t and wants an excuse to not go back to her desk just yet. Discretely she tries to check his face for any bumps or notches, pity his upper ears disappear into his hair. He’s probably one of those humanoid species that passed easily, maybe something from the Alpha Quadrant..

Meanwhile he smirks at her. The tilt of his head seems to acknowledge their exchange; a cup of water for two semi-rude stares.

“It’s hot today…isn’t it?” she tries.

“Not to me.”

Then he blinks, once (had he ever blinked before?) and eloquently tilts his head back towards the oak handle of the closed window behind him.

“It’s been stuck for ages. Maintenance tried, they can’t budge it.”

“Let me try.” and without so much as a by-your-leave he stands up and wraps his hand around the handle and turns. The metal shrieks. Flakes of rust clatter onto the windowsill and the entire frame seems to bubble outward until it decides that one rusty spring is not worth the destruction of the whole and with a piercing creak the window opens halfway.

The two inch thick solid iron handle is slightly bent when the old man(???) releases it. He looks pleased with himself, flashing his teeth and sipping at the fresh breeze.

OKAY. This is clearly above her pay grade. Out of the corner of her eye she can see Midori running up, bless her, to make sure she’s allright.

Just then the professor’s door clicks open and she bustles out, bobbed silver hair flying.

“What on Earth?! Julian! Are you wrecking my building?”

“Sorry, Molly.”

Whatever his actual age is he suddenly looks about twelve; rubbing the back of his head, the haunch of his shoulders saying ‘sorry’ and the sheepish grin implying ‘not’. She doesn’t trust it one bit but Professor O’Brien only pats him on the shoulder, looking like an indulgent grandmother.

“Well, no harm done. Everyone’s ready back at the house. But you just had to sneak in here and escort me like you always do?”

He shrugs, unrepentant. “Since it’s the only time we get alone to catch up.”

“Standard, darling. If you can. The grandkids don’t have their translators yet.”

“Of course I _can._ ” he huffs. No buzz in her ear this time. For some reason the alien has a posh UK accent with slightly dragging sibilants. Her sociolinguistics major friends would have a field day.

He turns towards her.

“Thanks again for the water,” and then towards Midori. "Not a vampire. We’re rarer, I think.” and then, clearly feeling that his social obligations have been duly discharged, allows the professor to drag him away by the elbow.

With their boss gone there isn’t much left for the day, just a few admin things to wrap up. Eventually she caves and tries to look up ‘non-vulcan humanoids with super strength and hearing’ or even ‘Julian’ for about an hour in the public databanks and gets absolutely nothing useful.

~


	10. Sleeping Positions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> for tumblr prompt "Can you please, pretty please write a short Garashir fic where they're just cuddling and being really loving and cute?" archiving on AO3

“I think someone’s calling your bluff on the whole ‘are you really going to marry this Human’ thing.” Julian says when he opens the door to the room and sees the bed. It’s hard to avoid - the bed is 73.56% of the room and it’s a small room.

“I think they’re out of space.” Garak counters, setting their bags down beside the dresser.

Clearly the attic room was meant to be a single-occupancy but they’re both in town on a festival week and this is one of the few hotels that cordially rents to foreigners. Funny, bed space is one of the few ways he’s gotten spoiled since coming here; the old wooden family-bed Garak had scavenged for the house was easily three times bigger than the regulation Starfleet one he’d had in his quarters for so many years. Though in the morning they always managed to find themselves tangled together somewhere in its vast territory.

Here he’s pretty sure there isn’t even space for the two of them pressed side to side like sardines. A small bed, and a strange location means that Garak, like most Cardassians in this situation, would prefer to sleep on his stomach - in the more defensible position.(Now that had been a sight; going to the seaside on a hot day and seeing people laid out with their armored backs to the sun, like a blanket of grayish rocks.) The trouble was, a nice firm set of spinal ridges was an attractive feature on a man… and definitely not comfortable to sleep on if you had soft Human skin.

“I can go check if they have a cot…” he asks later, after they’ve washed the dust off.

“No, I think not. Once I’ve earned them I’m not in the habit of giving up my privileges.”

With one watchful eye on its creaky legs Garak carefully climbs into the bed and then rolls over onto his back. Following his own well-known steps of the dance Julian follows him, lowering himself down carefully to rest against his front. This is a position that works, found through long and happy practice and oddly comfortable even though Julian’s feet always end up nearly hanging off the edge. When he’s settled Garak makes a satisfied sound and Julian snorts into his neck.

“Yes, lucky you - travelling with your own mobile heat rock.”

“You have a few other useful functions.”

A cool hand settles across the back of his neck. Julian stretches and sighs, it’s a godsend how their different core temperatures are each soothing to the other. Normally there would be more to the conversation but it’s been a long day and it’s flattering how quickly both of Garak’s eyelids close and his breathing evens out. Julian himself only manages to think _well this is cozy isn’t it? Should have tried it back on the station…_ before the hot night breeze waltzes through a crack in the windowpane and carries his soft snores away.

~


	11. The Assassin's Classroom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> from a tumblr prompt by tinsnip. Archiving on AO3. Guess what manga I've been reading recently... ::looks at title::

On the day before Garak is supposed to get back he gets a message.

_“Forgive me, I’ve been delayed. Nothing serious but they have another sort of job for me to do here. It shouldn’t take more than a week.”_

Less than an hour later a call comes through from one of Garak’s colleagues at the Reconstruction Ministry, confirming the delay and the details, which does a lot to settle his heart rate. It’s always good to have corroborating information with these things.

Picking over the original message, which had piqued his interest due to being an image for some reason rather than plain text, he finds another one, hidden as micro-letters in the border.

This one says:

 _“Please think of me.”_ followed by a rather sappy sort of rhyming couplet; the sort which Garak always attributes to obscure country poets whose books were destroyed in the war but that Julian always suspects are of Garak’s own composition.

At the end is an even smaller postscript, the letters huddling sheepishly:

_"And if you have the inclination, I’m afraid the new bed of cliff-lilies might need more watering than I can presently provide.”_

He smirks and then, huffing air through his nose and feeling an acute pang of kinship with Miles across the lightyears between them, goes to grab the watering can.

As promised, a week later Garak is back and arranging a rare feast of takeout across the table as Julian staggers in after brushing his teeth. Sometimes Julian wants to tell him that he doesn’t have to do things like this; that that he doesn’t have to balance these little things between them as skillfully as an up-and-coming politician tallying his list of gestures and favors. It was just one missed lunch date. But then again, ‘devoted husband’ is a favorite role, it would be a shame to deprive him of playing it.

"So, what was the extension job?” he asks.

In return he gets a wide-eyed look and a coy tilt of the shoulder that implies ‘How can you even think of mundane details like that when cylindrical dumplings from Meltek’s are steaming on the table?!’ Julian’s stomach makes an unfortunate gurgle and concedes the point.

No matter, he’s got a fairly good guess as to what it was. Garak is… happy. In the security of his own space he’s even broadcasting it to a truly obvious extent - feet rolling against the straps of his favorite wooden sandals as he pulls out dishes in a series of graceful movements, only one quick-step shy of waltzing the plates across the kitchen. He’s humming too. Subtly, in the back of his throat, the way he did in the shop on the good days.

Cross-reference that with the fact that he’d been ‘delayed’ at that one crossroads town on his return route, where incidentally one of the newest Ministry Orphanages was being set up…

“So. How fare the future generations?” he asks again after they’ve eaten.

Garak beams, clearly pleased with him.

"Outstripping us all in ingenuity, to be sure. Did you know a whole contingent of them managed to make a Dominion landcrawler operational and used it to commute to the new school? Some were even using it as a mobile home. It’s certainly large enough! They could get twenty soldiers and a Vorta in those things as I recall…Of course there was the small matter of the children industriously digging up the ground cable and illegally siphoning power to run it, but I smoothed that over.”

“You were fixing a tank?”

 

“I came to fix the power grid and perhaps have a look at their ledgers to make sure everything was-” he takes the slightest theatrical pause “- in order. But then of course they had questions about maintenance, and now the new solar nets worked and then the matron told me that the full-time teacher’s transport was delayed…”

“Press-ganged, were you?”

“Far more pleasantly than that one time near Archanis IV! Would you believe that I was once a brief and unenthused member of the Klingon Navy?”

“Not for a minute.”

Julian can just picture it, a room full of crate-chairs and mismatched desks. Little clicking feet and chirping voices. It lingers with him all through breakfast, even as they’re doing dishes in the sink.

For some reason the image of Garak surrounded by children is… Is…and it’s like the click in his brain when he thinks of the right protein re-sequencing for a cure.

“Elim.”

“Hmm?” the rare use of the other name draws Garak’s eyes away from the window.

“We could have one, you know. A child.” he finds himself saying and then darting forward, his fingers blurring to catch the soapy teacup that had fallen out of his husband’s hand.


	12. Amnesia Ficlet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm just working my way through cliche bingo for G/B now. Also counts as Post-Canon Cardassia....

It was so warm that he really did not want to wake up. The bed was wide and comfortable, the sheets a little nicer than he remembered them, and when he stretched and rubbed his cheek against the pillow and wound his hands into the blanket, the thought of moving or being in any other position seemed distasteful. Then several things happened. First, he heard someone else shift in the room. Second, he realized that it was really a little too warm to have sheets and a blanket and long pajamas on. This gave him pause. It was never warm on the station unless something was broken. Since it seemed like a good idea, he opened his eyes. 

The ceiling was quite pretty. It was made of two shades of green wood in a sort of hexagonal honeycomb pattern. A breeze in the last sluggish stages of its life wafted lazily around the room. Just across from his bed a Cardassian man was curled up in an armchair/chaise-lounge sort-of-thing, his heavy jaw resting on two elegantly folded hands, his pale blue eyes just slitting open. The two of them blinked sleepily at each other. 

Outside the narrow oval window the sky was green, and Julian Bashir was heartily confused. At least the other man looked friendly.

“Ah, hello. This one is awake now." he said and then stopped and pursed his lips.

He wasn’t speaking Standard. _What on Earth?!_ It was as if some language setting inside him had been reconfigured. _Am I in another alternate universe?_ he thought. Maybe this was something like that Mirror Incident, though evidently much nicer. Funny, he couldn’t really remember the details of the Mirror Incident but he knew it had been unpleasant. But even though the situation seemed to call for them, he couldn’t summon up any feelings of apprehension. 

"Did you sleep well?" enquired his companion, in an even way. The incoming light caught the threads of his pale brown shirt, embroidered around the collar in a color the same blue as his eyes. The designs were geometric but they suggested flowers.

He flexed his toes. "Yes, thank you." 

Again, without his input his tongue touched right behind his teeth to form the slight sibilant of the last syllable and his head tilted politely fourteen degrees to the left. Creeping across the covers his left hand curled slightly, palm upward, index and pinky finger briefly tapping together.

'Rudeness not-intended' that’s what the gesture meant and he was nearly overdoing, it saying the same thing with his mouth "Pardon me but could you tell me where I am and why?" 

"You are in Rahbek State-Hospital, in Lacoria province on Prime, in the Homeland. This is the third floor Infections ward, room Senket-4. You are under light quarantine for an outbreak of the Ha’akZet virus, which you had rather unwisely rushed to treat, by the way, and which has apparently been industrious enough to cross the species barrier. You are recovering well but temporary long-term memory loss is one of the symptoms." 

"Oh! Um, I see. Thank you for telling me!" 

_I do hope that’s the truth._ he thought. It was a shame, he was mostly sure that he knew the man, and yet a certain inner voice insisted that very little of what he said could be taken at face value. Paradoxically, he felt quite safe around him. Though where had a recently-posted CMO of a deep space starbase had acquired such a grizzled, strongly built fellow was definitely a mystery. Though his white hair lent him heaps of dignity those eyes were sharp and he looked like he could be trouble, pretty floral embroidery or no.

“Have I been out long? What day is it?”

“Last-day of Sektet. Or February 27th, if you prefer.” Oh good, he had definitely not read up on the Cardassian calendar. Pity, they were a fascinating species! “...of 2392.”

_Ah, I'm in a hospital on Cardassia Prime. And I'm fifty two._

For the first time since he woke up Julian Bashir began to feel a slight panic. 

"Eugh! I’m fifty two?!" 

He raised a hand to his cheek, expecting to find it well, he didn’t quite know, coarse and leathery? But no - not too bad. No stubble though. Apparently he’d become a late devotee of the seasonal depilator. Well since it’s been _twenty four bloody years_ since the last date he clearly remembered, they’d probably come out with a model that didn’t itch like the devil. Met with this limited success he then had an idea to check his forehead for any deep wrinkles, but after bravely skirting the skin of his temple he abruptly thought better of it. 

Still, his body didn't feel odd, or strange, or old. It was only himself. Though now that he thought of it his hands did look a little more weathered, his skin was certainly darker. 

"So.. I take it we’re friends?" he asked the Cardassian. 

"Oh yes," he nodded. From the slight crescents of his eyes he seemed to find this statement very amusing. "of rather long standing." 

~


End file.
